We have much to say to you, gentle Correspondents, but we must devise a new mode of address, now that our Brother-Editor of Baldwin’s London Magazine has adopted our ancient style. Indeed, his Miscellany so resembles our own in form and pressure, that common eyes may, at first sight, mistake it for its elder brother. It is, however, a promising young Publication; and should any part of the reading public be of opinion that it is, in any respect, an improvement upon ours, we must, in like manner, proceed forthwith to exhibit an improvement upon it, till the world will at last have assurance of a Magazine.  Meanwhile, we have room for one Sonnet only.

how sweet when winter, o’er the yarrow rocks, hangs his pale banner, and the speary wood groans to the blast, as if in mustering mood— and on the far bear hills pine the sad flocks— when the unseen ice-queen all the torrents locks, and with fantastic spray-work plays her pranks along saint mary’s lake and eltrive’s banks, and, with cold glittering buds and leaflets, mocks the warm and lovely summer—oh! how sweet— (now one moon more hath waned like a dream, and man is half-forgotten)—come the feet of thy kind messenger!—thy wizard gleam flashes the world on the lone bard’s retreat, and life is in my ears like a loud stream.